Memories of the Broken
by Trilies
Summary: Every assassin has his beginning. For Aramuil Schäfer, it was in a dirty camp past hope with a pink triangle on his shoulder. The story of who Marluxia used to be.
1. 0 Prologue

**Disclaimer: **

I own neither Marluxia nor Bridgette. They belong to Disney/Squeenix and 2K, respectively. This idea of Aramuil's personality and history belongs to me and my sister, Judy (Seven VII on Gaia.)

* * *

**Memories of the Broken**

Everything still lingers on his tongue: the taste, the feel, the shame. For some reason, it overpowers the pain in his shoulders, and the young man is filled with disgust. Yet it's more than that. It's more than disgust, more than loathing... It's hatred, not just at the soldiers, but at_ himself_.

His hands won't stop shaking.

The room around him is nothing more than a blurry photograph to his eyes. How badly he wants to concentrate, and ha ha,_ concentrate_. Some one gives a high-pitched laugh, sharp and brief, and it takes him a few minutes to realize it's his own. More self-hatred this time, and the man snaps his mouth shut so hard, so quick, his entire jaw hurts. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, and refuses to let himself cry. No! No, he refuses to do this, to cry, not for them. That will mean he's lost, that there's no hope, and that he's nothing more than a broken little boy.

No. He refuses. They will _not_ break him, never.

The door clicks open, but he refuses to look up. Besides, there's no need to worry. He recognizes those soft footsteps. The scientists, the soldiers- they wear hard boots which clack upon the ground. It is their slaves that go barefoot, their helpless prisoners, and only one is permitted to wander the labs as she pleases.

Metal clinks against metal as the dark-haired girl lays down a tray, her eyes not once focusing on the boy sitting on the examination table. For a minute, there is silence in the lab, although the same cannot be said outside. Far off, guns shoot off, altogether, and only once.

Only once. For today.

Finally, she moves, silent as a ghost as she goes over to the boy. Her hands are not smooth, as a girl's should be. Instead, they are rough and covered in scars, wounds that have just begun to heal. Still, he seems to find some comfort in them, and allows her to remove his fingers away. For now, his cheeks are still dry, but the look in his eyes... It is so despairing; his shoulders slump as he stares at her. "Bridgette," he whispers, his voice nothing more than a hoarse croak.

"I'm here," she answers in her thickly accented voice. It is impossible for her to look away. His eyes are always so enchanting, a vivid dark blue that's so intense no matter what emotion lies within. Anger, sadness- it never seems to matter what, and those eyes bury her every time.

And every time, she wonders if it's genetics or the heart, the so-called soul.

At her voice, he hunches over, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. He gives what seems like a dry sob before he suddenly leaps onto his feet. In her surprise, she stumbles back, watching as the disgustingly thin teenager trips to a nearby sink. He doesn't quite make the journey, and his bones can be seen through the skin of his fingers as he clutches the edge of the dirty, rusty sink. Rotten food, stomach acid, and more splatter onto the floor. There's a pause, and his weak frame shakes with just the effort of _breathing_, gasping for air. It quickly ends as he starts to heave again. There is nothing more his stomach can give, however. All that comes out are terrible choking noises and the occasional dribble of clear and white liquids.

Finally, he stops, still desperately clinging to the edge of the sink. All of his remaining strength is spilled onto the floor, now, and he starts to crumple onto his knees, into his own vomit. It is Bridgette that keeps him from doing so, her own stick-like arms wrapping around his bare ribs and pulling him back. He weighs almost nothing, yet it's still a struggle to drag him away from the puddle. Slowly, she lowers the two of them to the ground. Still breathing heavily, he merely leans against her chest, the soft fuzz of his head resting on her breast. Carefully, she reaches up to the metal table, and her fingers curl around a tiny, filthy cup. The water in it certainly isn't clean, but at least it's fresh, and not salt. Some of the other prisoners here aren't so lucky.

With utmost care, she lowers it to the man's lips, allowing him only a tiny sip at a time. "Calm down" she whispers. "Calm down, Aramuil, and drink."

-----------

For years to come, he will always remember the other boy's name. It was something he had always playfully teased him about. Reinhard. "My fox" he used to whisper when they thought no one was paying attention. Oh, they hadn't been in_ love_. It was simple teenage infatuation, and it had been oh-so sweet. Oblivious to the changes around them, he and Reinhard had flirted with twisting words, and their fingers brushed against each other more than once. If they felt particularly daring, they traded kisses behind their houses, so sure no one would catch them.

His eyes. Even when he was no longer Aramuil, he'd always remember those eyes, bright blue and knowing.

How stupid they'd been, so young and oblivious to the rest of the world. Still, even with those traits, it was difficult to ignore the rise of the Nazi party. In a surprising and rare moment of wisdom, they'd both agreed not to see each other anymore. By then, however, it'd been too late. It wasn't just the Jews this new regime wanted destroyed. Anything different, any race, any culture- if it wasn't the Aryan ideal, then it was trash that deserved to be burned.

To their credit, the soldiers hadn't burst right through the Schäfer's door. Instead, they had knocked, polite as could be as they explained to Aramuil's poor mother how her husband and only child were just more trash to be destroyed. Not their exact words, of course, yet Aramuil had sensed it in their voices and felt a numbing kind of rage at their presence. He never was quite sure why. Perhaps it had been because they were about to take him away from his home. Perhaps it was because they had revealed to him what a filthy liar his father was, with his dirty little Jewish secret.

Or maybe it was because his whole life was falling apart, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

----

If he had just been homosexual, perhaps things wouldn't have been so bad. If he had just been that, he wouldn't have been separated from others at the police station, herded to the ghettos. The last he saw of Reinhard, the police had been sneering about how they'd tear out his fingernails. Back then, Aramuil had held the faint hope that they were just bluffing, hoping to scare the dark-haired boy with the beautiful blue eyes.

Two months later, Aramuil arrived at a concentration camp. They were all lined up and forced to watch as they stripped a man, practically slamming a metal bucket onto his head. With no other choice, Aramuil had to watch as they set vicious attack dogs on the defenseless man.

As the victim finally stopped screaming and thrashing, Aramuil knew that torn fingernails were the least of anyone's worries.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Well, this is certainly off to a depressing start, isn't it?

Don't worry, it'll get better. Well, er, ah ha, sort of.

Unfortunately for Aramuil, his life isn't exactly sunshine and daisies. Oh, he has his happy moments, most definitely, but those aren't his defining moments. Those aren't the memories that Marluxia will later call upon to form his personality and the way he acts.

See, that is the goal. Judy, who is a Marluxia roleplayer, came up with the first vague inklings of this background for an Organization XIII roleplay over on Gaia. Being a pair of chatters on our own, we got to talking over the course of a few weeks. Turned out Judy has an idea for every little event that shaped up Marluxia. She's just too lazy to type it all up, and I've always been the more writing oriented of us two.

So, over Christmas break, the two of us decided to mix our talents together to form this fanfic. Judy would tell me the big fat basics of Aramuil's life right up to losing his heart, and I'd write it out with all the little details, dialogue, and various other things, sometimes contributing a scene myself. So to speak, she gave me the clay, and I decided to make something out of it.

Hopefully, you'll stick around for the ride.

I'd just like to thank, for one thing, Judy for being an awesome RPer, friend, sister, and plunnie gunner. I'd also like to thank Amber from Gaia, for encouraging my writing, and Aloria, for being my beta!

Reviews and constructive criticism are positively adored!


	2. 1 Survival and Spirit

Disclaimer: I do not own Marluxia, or any forms of him. I only own this story idea. I also do not own Bridgette, or anything to do with World War II.

Anyway! This took longer then I thought it would. Still, the actual first chapter is now up! I have the fantastic xcupidxstuntx to thank for that. She generously offered to beta for me when I mentioned that I had rough drafts that still really needed it. I couldn't have asked for anyone better. ^^

Now, on with the show!

* * *

**Survival and Spirit**

Four hours of nothing but pure work have taken their toll on his body and, as if on cue, his stomach clenches painfully. Aramuil grinds his teeth together, half expecting powder to fill his mouth with the action. It's no use getting angry, however, and he resigns himself to more back-breaking labor. He may have his pride, but he also has his sense of self survival. The Nazis have already made it quite clear that they enjoy a good show, and he has no intention of being the next act. So, with the shovel already heavy in his fingers, Aramuil continues.

It hurts like hell, this constant work, nonstop, but showing any hesitation is enough to get an earful of angry German. He's had enough of that, today, but he knows there will be plenty more in the future, both near and far. Not ten minutes later and, as expected, German voices do rise... But not in anger. In fact, they're not directed at any of the prisoners. Curiosity killed the cat, yet Aramuil is willing to ignore that saying as he steals a quick glance across the grounds.  
_  
Scientists_. Just that mere word is enough to bring the foul taste of loathing and fear into his entire system. Aramuil hates them more than the soldiers. At least the gun-toting bastards don't lie. They don't try to cover up their cruelty by saying how it's all for science, all so that Germany will be great once again. Bullshit. Aramuil knows they're just filthy little liars who take a sick delight in their experiments. After all, he's seen the little children with needles stuck in their eyes. He's seen those poor twins, their backs crudely sewn together with pus and blood oozing out.

He's seen it all, and he'll never forget, no matter how many years pass, no matter what happens to him.

With sudden venom, he slams his shovel into the ground. One such scientist always gets him in a foul mood, and he's quickly learned to hate that paralyzing poison green stare. However, those thoughts are easily dismissed once he spots the cause of all the fuss. Amongst the gaggle of scientists, one figure simply doesn't fit. It's a girl, thinner than he is, and with long dark hair that falls in curls down her back. There are plenty of girls here, other prisoners, who look just like her. Her appearance is unbelievably ordinary, yet there's something in the way she walks that speaks of pride. It's almost exotic, and Aramuil finds himself staring at her just as she turns her head. Their eyes meet for only a fraction of a second before a fist slams into the side of his head. Aramuil stumbles forward, the ground beneath him splitting into two for a moment and _ah_, there's the German screaming he was expecting.

* * *

"Up! Up, you filthy faggot!"

Blows are already landing on his back, his arms, and Aramuil struggles onto his feet. Sleep, pain, and hunger make him dizzy, and he doesn't have even two seconds to regain his bearings before a harsh grip wraps around one of his arms. The soldier jerks him forward, practically dragging him out the door. Cruel, mocking whispers follow him, but it's nothing new. Aramuil only focuses on trying to see straight, his free hand pressed against his head. Time seems to be a foreign concept, because one minute, rocks are digging into his feet, and the next, brilliant lab lights are burning into his pupils. Hissing, he jerks his head up, eyes narrowed. The soldier doesn't even try to look back; he just continues to stride forward, Aramuil helplessly dragged along.

A creak, a click and there's suddenly a tight grip around his neck, forcing him to stand straight. Blinking a few times, Aramuil's sight clears and he surveys the two other people before him with a carefully blank gaze. On the inside, however, he's terrified. Fuck, oh fuck, no, no, they're going to use him as one of their fucking experiments! Aramuil can practically feel the blood draining from him and onto the glaringly white floor. There was hope, however meager, while they simply worked him to death. Experiments, meanwhile, are a death sentence. In fact, they're worse than that. Curling his fingers into fists, Aramuil is absently aware that his palms have begun to bleed.

Despairingly, he wonders if he's fast enough to grab a scalpel and end it all before it even starts.

After the first moment of stupefied panic, however, Aramuil notices how unusual the entire thing is. For one thing, there's only one actual scientist. For another, the person besides that scientist is the same girl who raised all the fuss earlier. He's curious, oh yes, but prisoners aren't supposed to speak. Instead, biting back his questions, he watches as the scientist grills the girl.

"Child really should be grateful to nice Doctor Vogel that she gets such a gift. If child wasn't so smart, didn't make such efforts, then she certainly wouldn't have gotten an assistant for our work." Aramuil isn't even being spoken to, yet he still feels anger at how the scientist speaks to her, as if she's a retard. She doesn't seem bothered, however. She only stares up at the scientists innocently until he turns away. Then, her gaze is instantly on Aramuil. Up close, her exotic air is even more obvious, and her dark eyes are mysterious. It gives her an unreachable appearance... But Aramuil thinks he's probably the only one to see this.

The sharp clack of the scientist's boots and the pressure releasing his neck draw Aramuil's attention away from the girl. Impatient gloved fingers wrap around his chin, and he turns his head turned this way and that. With the soldier having relinquished his control around Aramuil's neck, he is forced to stand on his own shaking legs. Rather helplessly, he grits his teeth and waits for even an inkling of what's going on. It takes a while, and a lot of poking and prodding before the scientists finally moves away. "Yes, yes, this one will do," he mutters, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Aramuil's blood freezes. "This will make a useful servant indeed."

Servant...? Oh. _Oh_. Aramuil could almost laugh, if he wasn't so tired and scared. Safe. He's safe. Thank God. Buried underneath all his relief, his pride bristles weakly, and it's easy to push it aside for now. They just need a tool, not a toy... For now. Pride doesn't matter at the moment. Survival is key, and then he'll get his revenge.

Some day.

As Aramuil revels in his relief and thoughts of revenge, the scientists retrieves a file. As he begins to flip through it, he reads aloud. "Aramuil Schäfer, of sixteen years. Hm, is a perfect age as well... Yes, he'll do. You can take him back; we'll retrieve him in the morning."

Morning isn't that far off, and it feels as if Aramuil's closed his eyes for only a moment before he's being yanked onto his feet again. This time, however, he's slightly more prepared. The sunlight helps as well, giving him a clear image instead of dark blurs.

"Move! Move, filth!"

Aramuil snaps his head up, suddenly wide awake. Out of reflex, his whole body tenses even as he realizes the voice isn't directed at him. Across the stretch of dull dirt, a Nazi soldier screams at other prisoners to get them moving. Formerly a part of the pack, more or less, it sends a shiver of shock up Aramuil's spine to see those skinny bodies at work. How pathetic they all look... For the first time, he realizes with disgust the position he's in. He's just like those pathetic things slaving away for the Nazis. It makes him sick, and more than a little ashamed. It won't be like this forever, he promises himself, even as the soldier pulls him along even harder. One day, he'll be free of all this.

One day, he'll be stronger, and these sick scum will regret ever treating him and the others this way.

* * *

"Bridgette Tenenbaum." Is what she tells him when he asks her what her name is. For the time being, the lab remains empty, and only the two of them remain. Without a soldier breathing down his neck or scientists invading his personal space, Aramuil is able to look the girl over better. The yellow star stitched onto her clothes does not escape his notice. Not that it's surprising, really. Yellow stars here are a dime a dozen.

Out of politeness' sake, he introduces himself while setting down a large crate of chemicals. "My name's Aramuil Schäfer." When he turns around, she's smirking at him. At his quirked eyebrow, she even gives a small chuckle.

"I know," Bridgette states simply, her hands neatly folded in front of her. "Doctor Vogel said it quite clearly last night, or is your memory faulty?"

He'd offer a witty retort, yet the door clicks open, and they both fall silent as the doctor steps in.

There's truly little difference in working in the labs and working outside in the dirt. The conditions are somewhat cleaner, yet backbreaking labor is backbreaking labor, and Aramuil finds that the scientist's screams are similar to that of the soldiers'. Nonetheless, if there is a bright side to any of this, it is Bridgette's presence. No matter how silent she remains, there is a kind of superiority in the way she stands. It's nothing compared to when she speaks, of course, a kind of dry wit lacing through her voice.

Both of them know it drives the doctor positively mad.

"Why!?" he explodes one day, whirling away from the microscope and onto Bridgette. "Why do you tell _me_ these things!?"

His hand quivers at his side, as if it aches to hit her. However, Bridgette seems unperturbed, and Aramuil admires how blank her expression is. The only emotion is a mocking kind of innocence as she speaks. "If you're going to do something, you should at least do it _properly_."

Aramuil keeps his head ducked down so the grin on his face isn't seen. Of course, the dear doctor needs to take out his frustration on someone. In quick time, Aramuil finds himself in the possession of a nice dark shiner and the order to get more water. It's only in the (relative) safety of the courtyard that choked laughter starts spilling from his mouth. He has to take a few minutes to get it out of his system.

* * *

Apparently, despite how valuable she is, even Bridgette isn't clear from punishment, even if it is only mild. As he stands in the courtyard, his arms ache from having held onto the bucket of water so long. Aramuil's bones creak with the effort and he can feel the blisters on his hands scream in protest. Despite all that, he's distracted when he hears the angry stomps of the doctor and the sound of something being dragged along the dirt. He doesn't move, of course; the soldier assigned to watch him is actually paying attention now. Aramuil merely continues to keep the bucket up, and watches from the corner of his eye as Bridgette is practically thrown into place next to him. A bucket similar to his own is shoved into her hands before the doctor storms off again. The dark-haired girl mutters a small curse under her breath before she mimics Aramuil. He waits for the soldier's attention to drift again before murmuring, "You're lucky they haven't done worse to you sooner."

"It's not my fault they make flaws in the work," Bridgette replies with a shrug. "How long have you been here?"

"Ah, three hours, I think." At her frown, he smirks and adds, "I missed a spot."

"Well, you-"

Quickly, the two of them shut up as the guard returns to his post. Aramuil doesn't even twitch, patiently waiting it all out. Bridgette speaks again, however, her whisper sharp and quick. "Well, you do have a tendency to rush."

"You have a tendency to piss off scientists," Aramuil growls back. Sometimes, he wonders if she even has a heart. She certainly never acts like it.

* * *

Day by day, the number of dead rises. It's impossible to miss the stench of decay, especially the times when the doctor lets the soldiers borrow him, as if he's some sort of item. On those days, he shovels strangers into the dirt, or pushes loaded metal trays into greedy flames so that there's no evidence left. Those days leave him filled with nausea, both from the stench and the sight. It's impossible to ignore the fact that one of those bodies could easily be his, one day, and the threat of death looms over his head.

It's those days that he remains silent, his jaw set and eyes heavy with a determined glint. Those days, not even Bridgette bothers to say anything.

* * *

"I've been wondering what you've been doing with the rest of your water."

The voice is softer than even a whisper, yet in the pure silence of the dark courtyard, it's like a gunshot. Aramuil stiffens, body expecting punishment even as he recognizes that familiar voice. Carefully, he looks over his shoulder, and his blue eyes land on Bridgette, hidden in the shadows. Still full of nervous energy, he passes the minuscule cup he has from hand to hand. "Didn't think you'd be out," he comments quietly, with a lick of his chapped lips.

"You know you're going to die of dehydration if you throw away your water like that?" Is all she says, clearly ignoring his words. Aramuil frowns at that and, after a moment's pause, moves away from the spot he was hunched over.

"I'm not wasting water," he states, and gestures at the struggling little bit of green that sprouts out of the earth. Still gripped by paranoia, he watches as her eyes widen. Bridgette's soft steps come closer, and in no time at all, she's kneeling besides him. As one slim finger runs itself over the tiny leaves, Aramuil smiles. "I'm not wasting water," he repeats. "I'm giving life." His hands join hers, and together they gently cup the little sprout. "If a thing such as this plant can survive, then can't we? One day, this plant will grow into something huge and beautiful. That will happen to us as well."

Bridgette watches him carefully, her dark gaze dissecting. Slowly, she asks, "What if it doesn't grow? What if it withers and dies?"

The words make Aramuil close his eyes, and he merely listens. Deep inside his chest, his heart beats, beats, beats, and he can almost feel the heart of the world thud along with it. Bridgette's breath goes in, out, in, out, in time with his, and far off he can imagine the other prisoners doing the same. All over the world, people and plants following the same rhythm of life.

"It'll grow." He whispers.

* * *

Things could be worse, Bridgette constantly reminds him, and Aramuil consoles himself with this thought as best he can. So far, all he knows of the other experiments are rumors, which are definitely worse than a tiny needle puncturing his skin. Nonetheless, a shiver of disgust snakes up his spine as he feels his own blood being drained right out of him. It's even more disconcerting to see that tiny little glass vial fill up with red. Almost distantly, he wonders why they even need his blood, and if Bridgette knows about this.

The lab he's in is foreign, large and empty. Of course, perhaps it's because Bridgette's larger than life presence is absent, but Aramuil brushes the thought off. Instead he watches as the scientist bustles about the lab, carting away his blood. This one doesn't have anywhere near the power or arrogance of the doctor, and his hair is a mousy brown instead of the desired 'perfect' blond. If his twitchy, anxious movements are anything to go by, Aramuil figures he probably gets picked on. Heh. Not even the mighty Germans are immune to internal conflict.

As the mousy scientist digs through a cupboard of who-knows-what, Aramuil enjoys the rare moment of calm. Real calm, too, not that tense 'never know when the next blow will come, calm before the storm' bullshit. While his muscles, sore from hours of lifting and scrubbing, slowly begin to relax, Aramuil daydreams.

He dreams of when he was a child, of when the Nazi Party was simply a kind of vague idea that hadn't quite formed yet. He dreams of scraped knees and vicious soccer games, tossed insults that were really some deranged form of affection. Teachers yelling _Pay attention, this will be important!_ Kisses shared behind a house. Blue eyes.

They're precious to him, all of those dreams and memories. Precious because of the freedom he never realized was so important.

There's a world outside of the camps, too, and Aramuil dreams of that as well, even though it seems as if that will always remain _just_ a dream. A far off dream...

He wants earth, he decides right then and there. None of this hard and dry rock, with cracks splintering like a dozen spider webs and filled with blood and tears. Soft earth for things to grow in, to blossom and thrive. That's what he wants. He'll build a house there, as if he were a pilgrim from back in Columbus' time. Maybe it'll be America, maybe it won't, but he'll build a house nonetheless. He'll force Bridgette to move in next door, and every morning they'll wake up and insult each other from their windows with as much fondness as humanly possible. He'll marry her twin brother, even though the part of him still anchored in the real world points out that _Men don't marry each other, you idiot_ and _Bridgette probably doesn't even have a twin brother._

Those things don't matter, he figures. He still wants some one like Bridgette to fall in love with, wants a confident and mysterious smart-talking Arschloch of a man to fall in love with. With Bridgette, he can only feel fondness for such traits.

A house. A lover. A friend. A garden close to all three.

Freedom to have all these things.

The scientist's voice snaps him out of his thoughts with the proficiency of a whip, and Aramuil obediently gets to his feet. Time for more work, it seems... Yet the two of them are barely out into the hallway before a screaming reaches their ears. That kind of thing isn't uncommon in the main building, yet this is different. It's not terrified, or the kind of yell one gives when in pain. Rage and sadness flow through this screech, and Aramuil and the mousy scientist stop, surprised. Ahead of them is a crossing, and a nurse suddenly appears, backing away from the right hallway. Even from the distance he's at, Aramuil can see the tears dripping down her cheeks and the gun in her hand.

There's really nothing he can do except stare while the woman screams curses. The gruff, frantic voices of soldiers are yelling back at her, but her voice rises above all of them. "I'm sick of this!" Sick of all your twisted fucking experiments! There's no way I'll help with this anymore! You can't make me!"

"Calm down, woman!" A man's voice orders. "Just put down the gun and calm down!"

The nurse's laugh is sharp and biting. "And let you haul me away?" she snarls, a bitter smile twisting onto her lips. "To some asylum or as another prisoner in one of these damn camps!? Go to hell!" She straightens suddenly, and her legs spread apart while she jerks her chin up proudly. It almost seems as if she knows some grand secret the rest of them don't, and Aramuil is entranced by her smug smile as she raises the pistol to her head.

The world falls silent. A gunshot shatters the air, and the nurse crumples to the floor.

There are whirls of color and movement as the world bursts once more into action. Soldiers are hurrying to and fro, and the mousy scientist runs forward to try and grain some sort of control. Feeling numb, Aramuil follows, and finds himself standing before the nurse's corpse. The hole in the side of her head is grotesque, leaking blood and brain matter onto the tile floor. Her eyes, a brilliant green that belongs to spring, are still open, staring blankly at his feet, and the proud, mirthless smile refuses to leave dead lips. She's a symbol of death, now, just another corpse to add to fire and earth.

* * *

"Some cannot handle war," is all Bridgette has to say on the matter as she does her best to patch Aramuil up. Thanks to a soldier, he now has a lovely little scab on his cheek. As Bridgette dabs at his face with ice water, stolen from some experiment or another, Aramuil just frowns. The image of the dead nurse refuses to get out of his mind. He finds it hard to believe that this camp can be a part of war when it just seems like mindless torture. When Bridgette steps back, Aramuil pulls himself out of his thoughts. Curiously, he watches as her gaze rakes all of his agonizingly thin body. "This is ridiculous," she snorts. "How can they believe you'll do good work without being properly fed?

"Desperation?" Aramuil offers, and finds his words being ignored by the girl.

"They're such fools, honestly. So obsessed with their little revenge. They only waste money on working you to death, and receive shoddy results in return." Uh oh. Apparently, it's rant time, now. "So obsessed with revenge, and blond hair and blue eyes-" Aramuil tunes her out, and simply returns to scrubbing the floors while Bridgette rants and puts away the wash cloth.

Right as she's winding down, Aramuil suddenly finds himself blurting out, "She was very beautiful."

Bridgette pauses, and quirks an eyebrow. "The nurse?" She flicks a finger in the direction of the pink triangle stitched onto one ragged sleeve. "I thought you were homosexual."

"I am," Aramuil says with a simple shrug. "But she was still beautiful."

He can't place a finger on the reasons for this view. It's just so abstract; it feels as if he's trying to grab at the wind. Every time he tries, however, one image always stands out clearly: the nurse, standing tall and fearless, her sharp gaze electrifying even in death. Somehow, he knows he's discovered something important.

Aramuil just can't figure out what.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Aramuil goes through quite a bit, doesn't he?

Anyway, that's it for the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!

As always, reviews and constructive criticism are more then welcome! Even if you don't offer either, I'm simply glad that you took the time to read. ^^


	3. 2 Apple Seeds

Disclaimer: Still don't own Kingdom Hearts, World War II, Aramuil, or even Bridgette. However! I own the story idea and… Vogel. Hm. Yeah.

Anyway, hi again! This took a bit longer to put up, if only because school suddenly decided to be active. Thanks for everyone who's read this so far, even if you haven't commented. ^^

It's been brought to my attention by one of my reviewers then I tend to pay a bit more attention to Bridgette at times. I'll admit this is a bit true. It should be kept in mind, however, that Aramuil has almost no one else who he can interact with in a positive way. I'd write more with Vogel, except I can't seem to channel him properly. I blame this on the fact that he's an evil genius and I'm not. ._.;

Anyway! Here's the new chapter! I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**Apple Seeds**

_Stop looking. Stop looking._

It's not past lunch, yet, so there's not even a single crumb of bread in Aramuil's stomach. Is this good, or bad? No food means he can't throw up. No food means nothing will spill out of his mouth and onto newly scrubbed laboratory floors and delicate equipment. Besides, he really _doesn't_ have to throw up. He doesn't. Hasn't he seen all this before? The mutilated bodies they shovel daily into holes and furnaces have to come from somewhere.

_There's no reason to be shaking_ he tries to tell his body, even as his fingers start to scream in pain from how tightly he's gripping the cold metal tray. _There's no reason to be feeling this sick, you've seen it all before._ Despite such thoughts, bile stings at the back of his throat and raises chaos in his stomach.

_For the love of God, at least close your damned eyes!_

It's impossible, however. Aramuil's eyes are glued to the procedure taking place not more than a meter before him. The screams are ringing in his skull, carving this event into his mind. The table he's staring at is of cold, cruel metal, its surface now stained with blood. Two figures are bound to it, hands and feet locked while their torn bodies are twisting in pain. Maybe it would be easier to accept this monstrosity of an experiment if only he had an answer. However, questions are never allowed, and Aramuil isn't quite sure if he can speak anyway.

The doctor is plagued by no such problems. It's impossible to ignore that wretched screaming, yet, somehow, he accomplishes such a feat. Only the annoyed flicker of his venomous green eyes reveals that he knows they exist. Chills go right down to Aramuil's very bones at the cold, distant way Doctor Vogel suddenly snaps, "Silence, you two." As if they're annoying little mutts. "And boy, keep that tray steady."  
_  
It isn't?_ Aramuil thinks numbly, and, by some miracle, manages to rip his gaze away from the twins. True enough, the syringes and scalpels are rattling against each other, creating Siamese triplet mirages in their quivering. Weakly, he tries to force himself to stop, to keep steady. It's no use, however. If anything, the shaking only becomes worse. Doctor Vogel gives a sneer and a muttered insult, but Aramuil barely notices. His stomach twists painfully as one of the twins sobs for his mother, his god, anyone at all- That's right at the moment Aramuil glances up, right into wide, despairing brown eyes. He jerks back in surprise, and the crash of the tray onto the floor drowns out the thundering of his heart. There's no time to panic over his clumsiness before a hand smashes into the side of his face. Quicker than a bag of rocks, he drops to the floor and tries to curl up in vain as kicks rain upon his side.

"Clumsy idiot! Fool! Tch, such a useless-"

Eventually, Aramuil finds himself curled in the corner, hands over his ears as he tries to block out the screaming. It's a futile effort, right up there with trying to forget the pure agony in that little boy's eyes.

-----------

"You look like shit," is perhaps not the kindest or politest of ways to inform a person they're ill. However, Bridgette has never been the kindest of people and polite only when she can't find an immediate insult. Aramuil can almost find it funny, but he can't find it in him to laugh. He only stares at her with a blank gaze, hand still limply holding onto the cleaning toothbrush he's been using to scrub the floor. "Do I?" he asks, voice raspy, dry, even though he knows it's true.

Bridgette's eyes narrow dangerously, and Aramuil can almost feel that dissecting gaze probe and prod at his body. Mirrors aren't exactly provided, so he's only able to guess at what she sees. Starvation is a uniform among the prisoners, and he knows he would be a nameless face among such a crowd with his bone arms and conclave stomach. She can't be deciphering something from such things like those, can she? From his appearance alone? Perhaps his actions are to blame, somehow, because Bridgette suddenly stomps over to him. Her own fingers can wrap around his arm with room to spare, he notices for no reason at all before Bridgette suddenly states, "You haven't been sleeping." He is barely able to utter more than a syllable before she cuts in. "And you haven't been drinking, either. This can't all be for that seed. Tell me what's wrong."

Most friends would state that as a pleading question. From Bridgette, it's an order.

Anger bubbles up inside his chest, burning away the numbness which had grayed his heart. He tries to jerk away, head turned petulantly. "There's nothing wrong," he insists. "Let go!"

"Not until you-!"

The words are cut off with a gasp and a harsh smack. Time seems to slow down as Aramuil catches his breath. His mind almost can't process the image of Bridgette hunched over, or the stinging in his bruised hand. Before he can stop himself, he hisses savagely, "_Nothing_ is wrong! Nothing! I'm fine, I'm not going insane, I can eat if I want to! I just don't!" Feeling just about ready to collapse, he continues to rant while his fingers tear through what little hair they let him have. "I don't want to, because every time I try, I think of those damn kids! I think of the pus and blood oozing out of them, and they _scream_ in my head whenever I close my eyes! It won't fucking stop and I-! I... Oh shit." His words finally slip to a halt, and Aramuil stares with wide eyes at Bridgette. Blood is leaking over one lip, and she's staring blankly at a pink-speckled bit of white that lies in her palm. Suddenly apologetic, he stumbles over to her, an apology tripping over his teeth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Her fingers curl over the tooth and then, without warning, Bridgette's fist slams into his jaw. For such a thin girl, it's quite a punch, although it's more surprise than anything that makes Aramuil trip onto the ground. Unable to do much but gape, he stares up at Bridgette's angry face. "Is that all!?" she snaps. "Get over it, Aramuil!" A stomp of her foot accompanies the words. It's just such an odd sight; the loosely-hinged part of him wants to laugh. Every other part, however, feels insulted, and Aramuil snaps his mouth open to defend himself. How dare she-!

Bridgette refuses to give him a chance. Apparently, she still has _plenty_ more to say, if the kick to his still-bruised side is any indication. Whatever words he would have said is replaced by a sharp yelp, and Aramuil scrambles back as Bridgette continues her tirade. "Yes, the experiments are terrible. You've seen the corpses! You know that already. You've seen a nurse commit suicide because of these experiments. Are you going to do the same thing? Are you going to steal a gun and put it to your skull?" Her body stands tall and stiff, now, with her hands curled into fists and her eyes burning in barely restrained fury. "The plant will die, then, withered and worthless!"

Silence falls over them, and now Bridgette is longer glaring at him, but somewhere above his left ear. Finally, Aramuil's sigh breaks the quiet, and he pushes himself up onto his feet while rubbing his aching jaw. "Bridgette," he says slowly, "you're a crazy bitch." Even as the words leave his mouth, his usual tired but determined smile is returning. It's more than a little broken, but it's there nonetheless.

Her eyes catch this, and Bridgette snorts, jerking her head to the side and crossing her arms. "Don't expect me to steal any drugs the next time you have a mental breakdown. Tch, you act like such a woman. No wonder you're gay."

Aramuil just grins at this and gives a raspy little laugh that scrapes through his throat. An idea suddenly lights up inside his brain and he pauses. "Ah... Does that mean you'd steal drugs for a different occasion, then?"

Curiosity replaces irritation as Bridgette turns to him, an eyebrow quirked.

-----------

With an uncanny kind of grace he's never felt before, Aramuil slips through the shadows of the bunker. All those days of trotting on hard earth and freezing tile with no shoes turns out to be an advantage, for his bare feet make not a sound. Every nerve in his body is twitchy and trying so hard to pick up the sounds of a Nazi's gun adjusting or hard shoes on the ground. It's such a relief (although it shouldn't be) to hear quiet sobbing in the back of the bunker, even when he knows he's not in the clear yet.

There's almost no light to guide him, so Aramuil must go slowly with feather-light touches on the metal beds guiding him. The restrained sobs become closer and closer... Finally, they're right in front of him. Aramuil squints his eyes, barely able to see the shapes in the gloom, and carefully kneels down. The smell of blood and sickness creeps up his nose, and he's momentarily thankful that he can't see. At least he knows he's at the right place.

"Hey," he whispers, and instantly one of the sobbing ones stifles themselves. A woman's voice flutters through the darkness, trying to hush the crying twins. "No, no, it's alright," he reassures her, and reaches out to lay his hand on what he hopes is her arm. Hesitantly, a pair of dirt-covered, rough hands slides up his stick of an arm. They roll over the boney ball that is his shoulder, and up his neck. Perhaps the hollowness of his cheeks reassures her that he's not a Nazi, that he won't punish her. Her rough hands fall away, only for Aramuil to grab a hold of one sharp wrist. Quickly, he presses some pills into her palm and then closes her fingers over them. They've been hidden in his shirt all day, waiting for this chance. "If you want to end your children's pain, then feed them these." Aramuil pauses before he finally decides he has to be sure... Feeling tense, he quickly reaches down. The tips of his fingers first find dirty rough skin not too different to his own before they are wet with pus and blood. Aramuil's stomach twists in nausea as he feels the stitches and he quickly pulls away. Not hearing the mother's words, he gets onto his feet and tries to wipe the blood onto his sleeves while fighting back the urge to vomit. Off in the distance, some one coughs, and Aramuil jumps in nervousness. Then, like an assassin, he slips back into the darkness, back to his own uncomfortable bed where hopefully no nightmares will wait for him.

-------------

Stars and lights burst behind his eyes and Aramuil cries out in pain at the agonizing burning sensation in his arm. It feels as though some one's stuck a red-hot blade right into his very bone. Despite the fact that he knows fighting back will only make the situation worse, Aramuil none the less tries to scramble away from the wall he was thrown at. It's no use; Doctor Vogel's hand latches onto his shirt, and drags him forward. "You little bastard!" the scientist screams, his spit flying onto Aramuil's face. "Do you know what you've cost me!? I know it was you who stole those pills, don't try to deny it!"

Aramuil isn't even bothering to try, probably because of the pain in his arm and the war drum in his head. Perhaps his worst mistake, though, is the bitter glare he sends at the vicious, enraged doctor. The next thin he knows, he's thrown into a metal table which crashes to the ground. A gasp flutters out of his throat and for a moment, Aramuil can only lay there, head whirling while something drips out from his other arm. Freezing metal digs into his back and through the painful haze, he can hear the doctor still yelling at him.

"They were the perfect specimens! Now! Now, they are dead!" Harsh kicks begin to rain down on him, and Aramuil weakly curls up. "The experiment is ruined-"

"The experiment was a failure in the first place," Bridgette cuts in, the emotion in her voice unrecognizable. The doctor, however, just ignores her.

"The mother was in tears, did you know that, you little murderer?" Aramuil only gurgles in response, his vision fading while the doctor's voice beings to fall into static. As if from a great distance, he hears Bridgette's voice.

"Doctor! Doctor, stop, stop! His arm is broken; he's bleeding onto the floor! Doctor-"

Then everything disappears into darkness and white noise.

-----------

The pillow underneath his head is hard, but welcoming and warm. With a deep sigh that sounds more like a gasp, Aramuil struggles to open his eyes. The room he's in is dark, but not completely black. Hunched over him is Bridgette, and a large bruise has blossomed on one side of her face. Aramuil's mind trudges slowly through his thoughts, and it takes him a while to notice the sling which holds one arm and the bandage wrapped tight over the other. It takes even longer, for some inane reason, to realize that the pillow is not a pillow but Bridgette's lap. He tries to draw up memories of what happened, yet only disconnected feelings and pain bubble up. He groans lightly as a heavy headache begins anew inside his skull, and Bridgette's eyes flicker open.

By now, he _really_ should know better than to expect any sympathy from her. Bridgette's eyes darken and she jabs a finger into his chest. "You idiot!" she hisses. "Why I went along with such a ridiculous scheme, I'll never know! For one who claims he'll survive, you seem abnormally suicidal!" Aramuil simply closes his eyes and lets her angry words wash over him. The camps must really have driven him crazy if he finds this sort of verbal abuse comforting. "I refuse to listen to any of your requests from now on. In fact, the next time you ask for something, I'll shove some of those pills down _your _throat. Are you smiling!?"

"I have no idea why you'd think that," he rasps, grinning feebly. He opens his eyes and reaches up to run the back of his fingers over one of her cheeks. "You know, I've never seen you this worried before. Why, Bridgette, are you falling in love with me?"

Bridgette smacks his hand away with an incredulous snort. "I make it a point not to fall for fools. Now go back to sleep."

-----------

Prisoners are not allowed to rest, even if they're injured. Hell, especially if they're injured. His cleaning duties are increased by triple of what they were, and Aramuil feels himself getting weaker by the day. The cut he has on one arm is a simple thing for Bridgette to take care of. It's his broken arm that causes him misery. It's next to worthless and that damn doctor refuses to let Bridgette do anything other than a simple splint. _Bastard._

The grating sound of the brush against the floor stops, and Aramuil straightens with a wince. Blood cakes the bristles of the brush and the skin on his hand. It's his _own_ blood, to boot, rubbing more salt in the wound, so to speak. A dribble of sweat slips down his neck, and shaking fingers set the brush down. For a brief second, the world seems to tilt, and Aramuil squeezes his eyes shut with a curse. Shit. Damn. Of all the times for Vogel to drag Bridgette off to some whatever-the-hell meeting... Even with his eyes closed, it feels as if some one is continuously whipping the very floor out from underneath him. Lacking any elegance, he leans back and falls flat on his ass with his legs spread and bent. A sour taste is in the back of his throat and he quickly places his head between his legs. That's... That's what Bridgette said to do if he's nauseous, right? Aramuil closes his eyes again and tries to curse the ill-feeling away.

Suddenly, the door clicks open, yet Aramuil can't even move to pretend that he's still working. With a sinking feeling, he waits for the inevitable...

An awkward silence ensues before a voice speaks up, timid and hesitant. "Excuse me, but I have some coffee for Doctor Vogel..." Confused, Aramuil raises his head and makes out the short, chubby form of a nurse. True to her word, she's holding a tray with a steaming cup of coffee on it. "Is he out?" When Aramuil gives a dull nod, she bites her lip nervously. "Oh. I see. Well, I'll just leave this here, then." She quickly trots over to the recently sterilized metal table and leaves the tray there. Aramuil completely expects her to leave right then and there, but, oddly enough, she doesn't. Instead, she glances around nervously before she scurries over to him. He barely has time to blink before an apple is shoved into his hand. Bewildered, Aramuil watches as the chubby nurse darts out of the room. As the door snaps shut once more, Aramuil's gaze slowly switches to the apple. Finally, he asks it, "What the hell?"

-----------

"Oh, that would be Hannah, then."

"Really," Aramuil replies noncommittally as he sits, cross-legged on Bridgette's bed. The girl's influence with the soldiers and scientists here never ceases to surprise him. Instead of bunking with the two dozen (or more, undoubtedly) other prisoners, she's somehow managed to relocate him to her room. Well, to be honest, it's not so much her room, since it's shared by a dozen other younger girls. It's perhaps the only time so far that the pink triangle on his sleeve has brought something good. Aramuil has a feeling that if he was straight, he'd still be on a freezing metal shelf than a rather lumpy, uncomfortable mattress that's falling apart at the seams.

Across from him is Bridgette, whose body mimics his own in the way she sits. "She probably has an infatuation with you," Bridgette comments lightly. "In fact, many of the nurses here almost pity you. Did you know that?"

The apple spins through the air, a dark sphere in the dim room, before it lands once more in Aramuil's open palm. "I'm gay," he replies with the same light tone as her. The comment about pity is pointedly ignored. "Hasn't that shot down her hopes yet?"

"Clearly not, if that apple is anything to go by." Her eyes follow its ascent before she gives an aggravated sigh. "In most cultures, fruit is eaten," she points out as the apple plops into his hand again, "not toyed with."

Aramuil pauses and his gaze flickers over to her. Without hesitation, he holds it out to Bridgette. "Do you want to share?"

Again, she only glares at him. "You're the sick one," Bridgette says simply. "You need the food more than I do. Don't be an imbecile."

"I feel fine," he insists, even though his skin feels as though it has been dipped in ice water. "Besides, you're the one who keeps me alive here. If not for you, I'd be ashes by now."

"You wouldn't need my help if you weren't so stupid and stubborn," she counters, although her voice lacks its usual bite. "Fine, I'll take your apple." The fruit changes hands constantly over the night as they tear into it, and when it's finally nothing more than the core, they hide it away under the bed. That's not the end of it, however - with an impish smile, Aramuil digs the seeds out from their little cell.

Bridgette will be sure to murder him when she discovers the new sprouts.

-----------

"What's-unf-gotten up their-ow-ass?" Aramuil pauses, taking in a deep breath as he wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. Exhaustion and sickness are taking their toll on his already weak body, and he's not sure for how much longer he'll last. Who knows how long he's been struggling to survive, and now...

"I overhead them last night," Bridgette informs him, sweat dripping down her own neck as they shovel more paperwork into the incinerator. Rarely is she called to do physical grunt work, so Aramuil takes this as a sign that all hell's about to break loose. "Supposedly, the United Nations' troops are getting closer by the hour."

"United Nations?" Aramuil echoes, blinking as the world splits into two for a brief second.

"America, Britain, Russia, you know," Bridgette explains patiently. Even as she heaves more papers to be destroyed, her eyes watch Aramuil sharply. Completely disregarding the subject at hand, she demands, "You haven't been sleeping again, have you?"

"We share the same room," Aramuil says, closing his eyes. He feels his body sway from side to side, and can't be sure if it's real or an illusion. "Wouldn't you know, Brid?" However, she's hit the nail right on the head. With the sickness come the nightmares. They're not just memories, now, but twisted dreams which keep him up in a cold sweat.

Avoiding the question, however, just makes it worse. Bridgette gives a frustrated growl and stomps her foot. "It's easy to fake sleep. However, the bags underneath your eyes- Aramuil?" Her voice changes from sharp to gentle in record time. "Aramuil, what's wrong?"

Why is she asking that? His eyes open to a spinning world of blurs that flips his stomach. He takes a stumble back while his hand goes up to his head. "Bri-" he starts, and his voice sounds much too loud for his own ears. "I...I don't..."

In an instant, he feels Bridgette's fingers wrap around his arm and then he's being tugged outside. All the while, she hisses curses under her breath. Aramuil can barely pay it much mind and merely lets his eyes slide shut. When he opens them a second later, the two of them are outside, and he's facing the sky. The air feels cool, good, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. Disconnectedly, he is aware that here are still papers in one of his hands and that Bridgette's fingers are running themselves through his hair.

That action. He knows that action. It's the same, rare, repeating action the girl always does when she's nervous. But what could get her so worked up? Aramuil forces his eyes to open again, and absently notices that the sky has turned from bloody evening to secretive night. Above him, Bridgette is as tense as a rabbit. Her eyes are focused elsewhere, and Aramuil would ask why. The only thing that obstructs him is the fact that his voice seems to have mysteriously vanished. All he can do is listen as Bridgette whispers to herself, unaware of his awakening.

"They weren't supposed to have gotten here so quickly... Maybe the reports were flawed? Tch, they can't even do the reports properly, those-"

Her words flicker and fade to static once more, and his eyelids can no longer stay open. Consciousness is elusive, taking away all of time's meanings. Decades could pass, and Aramuil figures he'd never realize...

Save for the cool flesh of the sprout that presses against his hand.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I can't really think of anything to say, heh. ^^;

Like always, I hope this kept you interested and entertained.

Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated, although not required~!


	4. 3 Wachsen

**Disclaimer: **I'm currently on a quest to own both Kingdom Hearts and, ultimately, Germany. If you wish to help me with this devious plot, I suggest giving money to me. Lots and lots of money. That's a marvelous idea, you should do it.

Anyway, all joking aside, here's the next chapter of MotB! Things begin to get a bit better for Aramuil, although we'll see how long that lasts considering my sadistic tendencies towards my favorite characters...

Also, I'm trying out a slightly different border. Tell me what you think, won't you? I'm still getting used to 's formatting and such.

* * *

**Wachsen**

**

* * *

  
**

_Beat grow beat grow beat-_

"Lay down, Aramuil, lay down, just rest, or so help me-" Bridgette's voice, sharp and commanding and tempered by worry and he wants to open his eyes but when he does he sees nothing but black and-

_Grow beat grow beat together-_

Nothing has ever been so important to remember, nothing but the beating of his heart, the growing of the plants, he can feel it in his bones, and the voices are rising around him and he just wants to open his eyes-

_Growbeatgrowbeatgrowbeatgrowgrowgrowgrowbeatgrowbeatbeatbeat_

"What do you mean, we have to move!?"

"Don't take that tone with me. You are a useful tool, Tenenbaum, but you are also expendable. Either your filthy faggot friend gets up for the march or the soldiers take the… preferred method of shooting him."

Silence, except-

_Beatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeat_

"…I will not let you do that."

"Ha! And you think you have a choice, child?"

_Beatbeatbeatbeat-_

_**BOOM.**_

It feels like years later when he finally wakes up again, and something is sticking his eyelids together. Stubbornness has always been a trait of his, however, and after a while, Aramuil finally pries his eyes open. Even before he spots Bridgette serenely sitting besides his bed, something inside, something instinctual, tells him the world has changed… Even if it's only his world.

The entire room blurs together, and Aramuil doesn't even know if it's really Bridgette sitting besides him. That all changes when he finally hears her voice. "Well! It took you long enough, didn't it, Aramuil?" Her voice surprises him, because he's sure he's never heard her this so relaxed before. Then the figure next to him leans over him, and her image sharpens to his blurry vision.

Aramuil blinks, and it feels as if there's a tremendous heat throughout his entire body. It burns so badly, but that's quickly remedied when Bridgette places a cold cloth on his head. A relieved sigh slips out of his throat and Aramuil closes his eyes again. It occurs to him that he should ask what's going on, why isn't he dead yet-

But then he slips back into unconsciousness.

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXI

"Jesus Christ, do I really look like that?"

Ages ago, or so it now seems, Aramuil would look in the mirror and see a healthy young man with a splash of red-brown hair upon his head and something glorious in his future. Now, as he pokes and prods at his own face, he can barely believe the sheer amount of change that's taken him. Underneath all the dirt, his skin has taken a sickly hue and his bones can always be seen somewhere, no matter how he moves. His hair, formerly bright and making him known no matter where he was, is now dull and looks more brown than red. Aramuil makes a face at the mirror, and his reflection twists grotesquely. "I'm a sorry sight."

"I've seen worse," Bridgette says decisively and glares at him. "Now, are you quite done preening? I have better ways to waste my time than holding up a mirror."

Innocently, Aramuil grins at her. "None of them have my charm," he laughs, and bounds away. Energy seems to fill his every limb, or at least recently. At a physical glance, the camp is pretty much the same. It's still dirty, and the people there are still in a pathetic state while soldiers roam around. However, now it's not the Nazis, anymore. Now, it's American and British soldiers who populate the camp. The only real improvement is that now they're no longer yelled at or beaten. Besides that…

It's still the same.

However, Aramuil has never been happier.

"Come on, Bri!" He bounces back, his body shaking with joy and exhaustion that's held at bay by his surge of adrenaline. "Cheer up, we're finally-" Aramuil's words are cut off as his legs suddenly go on strike. He crumples to the ground with a yelp, and lies there for a moment. The fall jostled his poor broken arm, and Aramuil can only wince while Bridgette sets down the mirror. She seems perfectly content to take her own sweet time before she finally walks over to Aramuil with a smug smirk and her hands on her hips.

"So." Bridgette is enjoying this far too much. "I think we both know that running around while sick and tired is a terrible idea." Then, for good measure, she adds, "Idiot."

"Your concern is touching," Aramuil grumbles, sourly rubbing his rear. "Now, help me up and tell me everything that's happened since I've been sick."

When they're finally situated on her bed, Bridgette does just that.

Apparently, the United Nations came sooner than the camp had expected. This gave them something of an advantage, although the Nazis had put up a good fight. Despite that, in the end, they didn't have a chance.

"I don't suppose you'd remember," Bridgette says with a shrug. "They wanted all the prisoners to move on foot and everything. Still, you can be excused. After all, you were unconscious most of that time."

There's really nothing he can say to that, so Aramuil just asks, "And what about the soldiers? The scientists? Do you know what happened to them?"

To his disappointment, Bridgette shrugs her shoulders. "I believe the soldiers have been captured. However, we're not exactly kept informed of what they plan on doing. Besides." Her eyes narrow, almost accusingly. "I've been in here taking care of you." Aramuil is subjected to that withering glare until he finally looks sheepish and mutters an apology.

Honestly. An apology for being sick! Sometimes, he really can't believe Bridgette.

At least it gets her talking again. This is definitely a good thing, for her eyes gleam conspiratorially as she leans closer to him. "However, I managed to… hear something quite interesting. Apparently, Vogel got… caught in the crossfire." Aramuil's eyes widen as his mind tries to process that simple sentence. "He's dead."

Pure savage joy spreads through his veins at the news, and Aramuil feels his nails digging into the palms of his hands. Dead. The bastard's dead. A sharp, triumphant laugh erupts from his mouth, and Aramuil hunches over, shaking. "Damn," he says under his breath, between the laughter. "Damn!"

Even without looking up, Aramuil can already imagine the look of confusion on Bridgette's face. "What on earth is wrong with you?" she demands.

At last, Aramuil sits straight again, and runs his hands through his hair. The grin on his face hurts, but he just can't stop. "Of all the times not to be shoveling bodies into the incinerator," he says wistfully.

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXI

"I didn't know we were allowed letters."

Aramuil barely acknowledges Bridgette's questioning statement, or even her presence in the room. Instead, he concentrates solely on the piece of paper in his hands. Its cleanliness doesn't seem to belong with his tanned, dirty skin. The envelope the letter came in lies, discarded, on the gray floor. It's only when she goes to pick it up does Aramuil look up with a jerk. "What?" he asks, giving off the impression that he'd just snapped out of a dream. "I mean, well, we can, I suppose. Just not many people know where we are." His voice trails off, and Bridgette frowns. Suddenly, out of nowhere- "Are your parents alive, Bridgette?"

Never before has either of them spoken about the past. It was a subject more dream-like than all their talks of a beautiful future. Oh, there's always been hints of it… A chance to talk about their families and old friends. Yet in an unspoken agreement, they've always danced skillfully around and away from it. For Aramuil to bring it up so blatantly…

Well, even he's startled. Feeling surprisingly numb, Aramuil stares down at the letter until black and white blur together. Finally, he feels the mattress give way slightly as Bridgette sits on the opposite end. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "I imagine not. They were Jewish."

Earth and fire… "I see," Aramuil says.

"Why did you ask?"

The paper crackles as Aramuil folds it up again. This level of silence is uncharacteristic, but he doesn't know what else to do. What can he possibly say? Nothing. Really. But he has to say something… "My mother's alive."

In the back of her throat, Bridgette makes a curious sound. It's clearly a sign to go on, yet for the first time in a long while, Aramuil can't find the words. Odd… Even when he was forced to be an obedient little slave, there was always something he wanted to say, some barbed insult or snide comment. Now? Now, nothing. Perhaps Bridgette can sense this somehow, because she's the one to move things along. "Well? Did she say where she is?"

"America." Aramuil gives a dry smile. "Apparently, she managed to escape to there not long after Father and I were taken away." Even he can sense the dark tone his voice has taken. That coward… Contempt flowers inside of him, and he doesn't even notice the white of his knuckles until Bridgette places a calm hand over his shaking fist.

"Don't get angry at her," she admonishes. "After all, unlike you, some people actually have a sense of self-preservation."

The words are just so… Aramuil doesn't know, and they should be making him angry. They don't. Instead, Aramuil just gives a crooked little grin at the insult slipped into her words. "I suppose you have a point," he chuckles, and the thorn-riddled plant inside shrinks just slightly. "Anyway…" He makes a gesture with the folded up letter. "Apparently, she managed to get cozy with some important official over there and, with a few pulled strings, found me. Or so I assume. She's somewhat vague in this whole thing." He pauses. "…She wants me to go to America. In a week from now, I'll be on a train, then boat."

An almost awkward silence falls over them. Aramuil carefully watches Bridgette's hands, unable to look up at her face. They don't twitch, or freeze over his fist. Just as before, they lie comfortably on his curled fingers, a reassuring presence. Finally, they curl just the slightest bit over his skin.

"In just a week, hm?"

"That's right."

"Well, it's the 'Land of Opportunities'. Don't screw it up."

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXI

Seven days pass by too quickly.

A sickening sense of déjà vu seems to have taken over him for some reason. Aramuil closes his eyes and breathes in deep, welcoming the filthy air of the train station. He holds no suitcase, no possessions. The only thing he has are the clothes on his back and a sparse amount of money, and even those aren't really his. They're stolen from the bunks and trunks of those who used to work at the camp. Aramuil feels dirty wearing them.

"It will be a long trip," Bridgette observes from her place at his side. Her arms are wrapped tightly around a book, undoubtedly stolen from some scientist's old lab. With no Nazis, they've gotten into places they've never been allowed, such as the bookshelves. "Are you sure you'll survive?"

"You make it sound as if I'm walking on knives," Aramuil says, and opens his eyes. "You know, Bridgette, you didn't have to come all this way with me. After all, now you have to wait until the soldiers are done with the rest of their business."

"Just shut up and be thankful," Bridgette says right back. She looks vaguely annoyed and ruffled, like an irritated bird. He'd offer a retort, but a train's whistle cuts through the conversation. It's somewhat nostalgic. Aramuil sighs and gives a small wave to her, along with a half-assed attempt at a confident smile. He's not quite sure what he expects in return, perhaps another insult regarding his intelligence. She doesn't do that. What she does do, however, is shove her book into his hands. "In case you get bored," she says simply as she steps back, arms crossed. Bewildered, Aramuil flips through the book, and discovers that the pages are filled with various things about plants.

"Hell, way to make me feel guilty. I don't have anything for you."

"As if there's anything you could give me. Now, hurry up or you'll miss your train."

"No, no, there has to be something…"

"Idiot, do you not want to go to-"

"Ah ha! I got it!"

"Got what- MMPH!"

It's clumsy and awkward, this little farewell kiss, but Aramuil doesn't mind. He just grins against Bridgette's mouth, amused at how wide her eyes are. Quickly, he pulls back, the perfect shit-eating grin on his face. "There. Try and forget that."

This seems to be the perfect wake up call, for Bridgette sputters in rage. "You sonova-!" Aramuil laughs as she begins to pound on his arms. "Get going, you bastard! You're going to miss your train!"

"Alright, alright!" Grinning, he bolts for it, and calls over his shoulder, "Now you'll always remember me!"

Bridgette stands there for a moment, red-faced in her mixed feelings of fury at Aramuil's insolence and sadness at his departure. As the train gives a groan and finally begins to move, she suddenly notices something stuffed into the pocket of her dress. Curious, she pulls out the rag, and inspects it. It's a torn piece of cloth with dirt practically merged with the fabric. The only thing that makes it different from a well-used washcloth is the faded pink triangle right in the middle.

Memories resurface. Memories of how ridiculously stubborn he was. The other prisoners who wore pink triangles were ashamed of this fact, terrified of the ridicule and pain they were forced to go through. Aramuil wore his as a badge of pride. Bridgette's mouth twitches into a smile. No matter how much trouble it got him into.

And yet he survived.

He survived through torture, through endless labor, starvation, sickness… All while holding onto what was him, all while refusing to be ashamed of his identity. Hubris? The word doesn't fit, Bridgette realizes as she runs her fingers over the faded pink. It's not an excess of something that Aramuil has, but just the right amount…

Strength. Such a simple word with such a simple meaning. Yet it fits perfectly where 'hubris' does not.

The fabric is rough and unpleasant to her skin, but it doesn't matter. The more she stares at the scrap of cloth, she realizes that's not all it is. It's more than that. It's a symbol of strength, a part of Aramuil… With a smirk, she closes her eyes and asks the air, "Who could forget you, idiot?"

Alone on a train station. Bridgette Tenenbaum holds a piece of Aramuil's heart and listens as the train fades away into the sunset.

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIX

And there goes the rest of his lunch.

Looking terribly green and aggravated, Aramuil wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. In the long journey from Germany, his 'borrowed' clothes have since lost whatever cleanliness they used to have. Of course, brown is brown, in his opinion, so he's not exactly concerned about that… No, what's really on his mind is how the hell he's supposed to get to his mother. With a scowl, Aramuil leans against some large crate and pulls out her letter from his pants pocket. 'Someone will be there to guide you…' Someone. His mother's tendency for vague instructions knows no bounds.

Suddenly, a light cough erupts from his left and Aramuil looks up. A rather plain girl with dirty blonde hair stands there. However, she becomes quite pretty as she smiles at him. In English, she begins talking. "Hello there! You must be Aramuil Schafer, right? Your mother sent me to bring you to the hospital-"

He only knows a bit of English, picked up from home and the United Nation's solders, along with other travelers. The word 'hospital' instantly bring up alarm bells and his stare becomes sharp as he demands in German, "What are you talking about? What hospital?"

The young woman begins to get flustered. Clearly, she doesn't know the language. "I'm sorry, but-" She takes a shot in the dark and luckily, hits. "Didn't you know? I would have assumed she told you in the letters…" She trails off at seeing Aramuil's face. "..Oh. I suppose she didn't." She shuffles in place for a moment, lost in thought before she speaks up again. "Why don't we get going? I have some clean clothes in the car, and I'll even buy you lunch. How about that?"

With a grimace, Aramuil just nods, hoping that's enough even though he's only caught perhaps half of her proposal. Complicated… Things are just becoming too complicated. The camps, for all the horror, were at least simple, if nothing else. Still, he's not going to lament about that, of all things. He adjusts Bridgette's gift so that it rests comfortably in his other hand before he follows after his guide.

He's in America now. He's not going to screw up.

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXI

At other beds, other patients, the visitors are teary-eyed, either with happiness or dismay. Aramuil figure he's the only one who's neither. Instead of sobbing his eyes out in the crowded hospital room, he's taken an odd interest in his mother's sheets. An awkward, uncomfortable silence has fallen over them ever since the nurse-in-training guide girl (Langford, her name is) left. It's been ages since he's had a proper conversation with anyone, Bridgette not counting. Besides, it's not like he knows what to say.

"Miss Langford is a sweet girl, isn't she?" Aramuil's head snaps up and he stares at his mother. She's truly changed form the beautiful young woman he remembers form his adolescence. Her skin has more wrinkles than there should be, and is a sickly color similar to his own. For some reason, this disconcerts him.

"Er, yes, I suppose," he answers, fumbling with his words. Now that he's looked, he can't tear his eyes away from her. There's something old and terribly sad about her soft blue eyes…

She gives a small smile which matches her gaze perfectly. "You must hate me," she murmurs, "for leaving you and your father back there."

It's such a direct question, and Aramuil is thrown off balance. Thankfully, before he makes a further idiot of himself, Langford's cheery voice breaks through the gloom of the room. "Guess who came to visit!" Relieved, he turns around, than blinks in bemusement at the toddler that is stumbling ahead of Langford. For a moment, he doesn't quite understand, even as the little girl sways to a stop and stares up at him with eyes as blue as his own. Behind him, his mother makes a small noise of delight and worry. Langford helps the child up onto the bed with a laugh. While Aramuil silently stares, the little girl cheerfully crawls into his mother's arms.

Hesitantly, she introduces them, still speaking in German. "Aramuil, this is your sister… Rose Mary. You see, I… I was pregnant, when I… left Germany." Anxiously, she watches her two children, one silently stunned and the other blissfully unaware of the tension in the air. Finally, Aramuil slowly reaches over and runs a hand through his sister's red-brown hair. She laughs at the action and just like that, he pulls his hand away, sheepish.

"Oh" is all he has to say, and avoids looking at Rose Mary. "Um…"

Patiently, his mother simply sits there and gives her sad smile while she brushes her fingers through Rose Mary's hair. In the meanwhile, Langford stands there, out of place and knowing it. Finally, she excuses herself quickly and disappears to who knows where. With that presence gone, Aramuil relaxes somewhat. Unsure of this whole thing, he glances up again and slowly reaches out. "Is it alright if I…?"

XIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXIXI

Moonlight filters through the window, offering the only illumination in the hospital room. All of the patients are asleep, now, and most of the visitors have left for their own homes. He is the exception, sitting on the same stool since he came in. Aramuil winces as pins and needles race up his legs but he continues his careful maneuvering of Rose Mary from his lap onto their mother's bed. Every few seconds the child will murmur in her sleep, and he freezes until she becomes still once more. When she's finally curled up on the sheets, Aramuil sighs in relief. While his hand gently strokes his little sister's face, he looks up at his mother pensively. His hand moves to gently clasp a frail, wrinkled hand and he whispers, "Mother, are you awake?"

No response.

Aramuil leans over her, looking into her face, which is relaxed and peaceful. Taking a deep breath, he tries to start again. "Mother, I don't… I can't forgive you, but…" The words struggle against him, and refuse to leave his mouth. A son can't hate his mother, can he? It's not right. Seconds draw themselves out as he fights to forgive her, to say those simple words. I don't hate you. Four syllables, four words. It's not that hard, dammit! He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, trying desperately to find some source of calm…

It comes to him as he shuffles his feet, and the tip of his toe hits the large plant book that's been through land and water with him. Slowly, he opens his eyes again and kneels down. The book is cool and heavy in his hand, and reminds him of a dozen different things: plant sprouts, affectionate insults, and an aurora of dreams. They soothe his anger, ply enough thorns away from his heart for him to whisper….

"I don't hate you."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

Oh, yes, Aramuil definitely has something of a vengeful streak, and if he has a hard time forgiving his own family... Well, wait until you see what it's like when he finally (inevitably) makes some enemies.

As for the kissing scene between Aramuil and Bridgette... Make of that what you will, although it's always been my personal view that people can kiss and say 'I love you' without it having to be romantic. Not like full make-out session, but just a little peck. Of course, that could just be my own odd upbringing. Like I said. Make of it what you will.

As you well know by now, concrit and reviews are loved and appreciated! I hope you enjoyed the latest chapter! ^^


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